


once upon a time

by lilithqueen



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M, Medieval Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-22 07:24:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7425469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because this fandom really needed a medieval fantasy AU.</p><p>In 14-- Sweden, young Emil Västerström has just been told that he will marry a woman in far-flung Finland. He doesn't care for women, but it will bring wealth and power to his family and allow him to reclaim his own lands; with no other choice, he agrees to the match.</p><p>And then promptly ruins it by falling for his fiancée’s handsome cousin. Whoops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which emil fails in many aspects of his life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm going to start off by saying that this is very, very, very loosely based in actual medieval history. In fact, if it was any looser it'd probably fall off. There's reasonably accurate geography/food/clothing and a constant simmering tension between Christians and the pockets of paganism that haven't been eradicated yet, but there are also dragons, sea serpents, magic, and openly female knights. If you're looking for a sweeping historical fantasy epic, this ain't it.
> 
> ...if you're looking for emilalli makeouts, on the other hand...

The castle in Mora was not the palace that should have been his by right, but Emil couldn’t complain. At least he wasn’t dead.

He could have been, very easily. When the war with their noble neighbors had swept through Östersund five years ago, his aunt and uncle had grabbed him and fled to their own home with nothing but their young children, a few pounds of gold, and the clothes they wore. He had been fat and slow and clumsy then, better with a book in his hand than a sword; he would have been cut down as easily as his parents had been. Here in Mora, he was safe. His family still had allies willing to be kind to displaced nobles, and if he didn’t wear imported silks anymore, at least his tunics were of good thick wool. There were fewer fine horses in the stables, but he had his hawk and his hounds. Life was good.

When his uncle came to him and told him that he was to be married, that they’d found a rich bride for him in far-off Finland, he almost couldn’t believe his ears.

_“What?”_

Torbjörn frowned at him, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re a man grown. It’s past time you were married and carrying on our name.”

He stared at him, shivering. “But…” _I don’t want to get married_ , he thought frantically. _And to leave Mora for a giant overgrown frozen swamp…_ “I don’t want to go to Finland and get married to—to some pagan savage!”

After a long moment, Torbjörn stopped scowling and sat down on the bed next to him with a sigh. “No noble lady _here_ will have you; our station’s no longer great enough for that. The Lady Tuuri may be a pagan savage, but she’s a _rich_ pagan savage. Her family rules all of the Saimaa lakes.” He paused, laying a heavy hand gently on his shoulder. “And if the portraits don’t lie, she’s not unattractive. She’ll surely bear you fine sons.”

He felt nauseous. _That’s the problem._ But he couldn’t tell Torbjörn that, couldn’t tell him that the idea of laying with a woman turned his stomach. He and his aunt were good, God-fearing people; they’d surely be appalled. If not by his proclivities, certainly by the prospect that he wouldn’t want to carry on his marital duties. “Even if she’s—not bad-looking, why are you sending me to Finland? It’s so…it’s so _far_.” _I’ll probably never see you or Aunt Siv or the little ones again. Kaja’s so young, she might not even remember me if I ever come back._

Torbjörn patted him. “You’ll be fine. It’s not such a long voyage by sea, and you’ll be well-protected. We’ll send a knight with you.”

Well, that was a piece of good news. “…Who?” Maybe they’d be tall and handsome, and he’d at least have someone nice to look at on the way.

His uncle was quiet for a little while. “Ah…Sigrun, of Dalsnes.”

He choked. “That madwoman?”

Now Torbjörn was frowning again. “ _That madwoman_ is the most skilled knight in Europe. She will keep you safe. God willing, she might even be able to teach you a few things; I know your swordwork is atrocious.”

“It’s not…that bad…” But he couldn’t meet his uncle’s eyes, and his face burned as he twisted the hem of his doublet in his hands. “Must I?” He knew he was whining, and a part of him hated himself for it.

There was a heavy sigh. “Yes, Emil. You must. Look—you want to go back to Östersund someday, don’t you?”

Slowly, he nodded. If he was honest with himself, he’d been happy in Mora, but the lack of Östersund—the lack of what _should have been his_ —stuck in his heart like a barb when he stopped to think about it.

Torbjörn shrugged. “Well, there you go, then. If you marry Lady Tuuri, you’ll have all her gold and men at your command. Her brother is sending his commander here so that we’ll be able to mount an offensive, and _you_ will be safe in Finland while we fight. Emil, please—we need this marriage if we’re going to do that. We need you.”

He took a deep breath. “Very well, then.”

“Good. She’ll be arriving at the end of the month for the formal betrothal, and then you will be going back with her.” Torbjörn rose to leave, pausing to look back when he was halfway to the door. “You’ll still have your things from home with you, and your animals. You’ll be alright.”

“…As you say, Uncle.”

Once he was alone, he flopped back on his bed, staring up at the underside of the heavy wool canopy. _Marriage. I’m going to be married. And to a woman I haven’t even met, some heathen from Finland. I hope we at least have a language in common; God’s teeth, we probably don’t. She probably only speaks Finnish. How am I supposed to even talk to her? How are we supposed to…_ He made a face. _Well. I guess you don’t need to talk for that. Oh, this is going to be awful._

Roffe lifted his head from the floor, nails clicking on the stone as he ambled over. Emil sighed at his favorite hound. “No, Roffe, you are not supposed to be on the…oh, alright.”

As the mastiff slobbered happily on his face, he decided that maybe going to Finland wouldn’t be _so_ bad if he could have his dogs and his hawk with him.

\--

Lady Sigrun arrived within the week.

Her impending arrival had thrown the estate into a frenzy. His aunt and uncle spent hours instructing the servants, ordering bread to be baked and pigs to be slaughtered. The head steward was nearly fired when he made the mistake of questioning whether there would be enough beer. Emil didn’t see the fuss; it was only one woman, after all, even if she was a knight and the daughter of some lord over in Norway. The occasion hardly demanded a grand feast.

Before he could be cornered and dragged into helping with the preparations, he slipped out of the stables and went hunting. The lands ran wild almost as soon as he was out of the castle, and it was a fine place to catch small game. With his goshawk on his fist, his sword at his side, and Roffe and Tryggve following behind, there was nothing he needed to fear.

He’d just let Gunilla fly free after a likely-looking rabbit when he heard Tryggve start to growl at something approaching through the brush, a steady rumble that was taken up by his brother a moment later. His blood ran cold.

Whatever was approaching, it was _big_. He backed up against a tree and tried not to breathe too loudly.

The biggest boar he’d ever seen lumbered onto the track. It was as big as his dogs, covered in black bristles, with mad little piggy eyes and tusks like curved swords. For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, they stared at each other. _Dear God, please turn away. Go away._

And then it charged, and he screamed in pure, instinctive terror as Roffe and Tryggve lunged for it. Their teeth and claws drew blood, but it didn’t stop; as it shook its head to try to dislodge Roffe from its flanks, Emil barely had time to draw his sword before it was upon him. Time passed in flickers. _Duck—stab—miss—oh god its tusks—if I can just reach its throat—its eyes—_

The thunder of approaching hooves barely registered in his mind until the boar collapsed on top of him, a foot of shining steel embedded in its back. A voice above it was asking him a question.

“…alright? Boy, are you harmed?”

He blinked. His legs were pinned under its stinking bulk, but he didn’t _think_ he was hurt. “No, I’m…I’m fine. I think.”

“Oh, good. Let me just get this off you…” Hands clad in steel gauntlets picked up the boar’s head, letting him scramble out from under it. As the dogs started tearing at the carcass, he looked up into the face of his savior.

A lady knight in half-plate, steel over chainmail and leather. Tall—quite possibly taller than him—with brilliantly red hair and a sharp grin. The tabard laced over her breastplate bore a device that made his face heat up as he recognized it. _A red dragon transfixed by a sword. Of all the people that could have saved me…_

He was covered in mud and blood, there were leaves stuck to his doublet, and his hair was surely a mess. Still, he rose shakily and bowed, as was appropriate. “I thank you for your assistance, Lady Sigrun.”

She freed her sword from the boar’s back, wiping it on the grass. “Don’t mention it. You weren’t half bad; you didn’t drop your sword _or_ manage to stab yourself.”

“Um.” His face burned. “Thank you?”

She was already swinging herself back into the saddle of a huge black gelding. “You’re welcome! You can ride with me up to the estate, if you’re going that way; I’m supposed to be teaching some rich kid there.”

This was the worst day ever. _Should I say anything? Or should I just—no, everyone always says she is ill-mannered, she’s sure to blurt it out when she sees me, and Aunt will be furious._ “Ah. That…would be me. Emil Västerström at your service, my lady. I will thank you not to mention this to my honored aunt and uncle when you arrive.”

To his complete shock, she leaned down and clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. “Will do! I’ll see you there, little knight.”

After she trotted off, he whistled for Gunilla (who, it turned out, had not caught the rabbit), pulled the dogs off what remained of the boar (and he’d never been so grateful that they were well-trained; he was no weakling but there was no making hundred-pound mastiffs do anything they didn’t want to do) and began walking home. There were shortcuts through the woods that were impassable on horseback; if he was lucky, he would arrive before Sigrun did.

If he _had_ to have a swordsmanship instructor, at least he would not humiliate himself when he greeted her in in front of his family.

\--

The Finns were late.

One day passed, then another and another. Emil practiced with Sigrun (a stern but fair teacher, though she drove him cruelly), entertained his young cousins (who were all far too young to really understand that he might not return for years if he left), and tried not to show his relief in public. Maybe they wouldn’t come at all. The sea serpents were active this time of year, and a great number of dangers could befall a ship on its way across the gulf. Maybe his aunt and uncle would call off the engagement entirely, and he could continue on with his life.

While he was sparring with Sigrun, reaching for the sword she’d just twisted out of his hand for the thousandth time, one of the servants burst into the training yard. “Milord, your lady fiancée approaches with her retinue! They apologize for the trouble; their ship was capsized by the great sea wyrms.”

Emil barely managed not to swear out loud. “…Very well. Lady Sigrun, it appears our training will have to end here for the day.”

Sigrun grinned, pulling him to his feet. “Of course. Go greet your new wife!”

 _Right. My new wife._ As he walked to his rooms, he felt as though he was walking to the gallows. In a daze, he washed his hands and face and changed into a clean shirt. He was frowning at his selection of doublets when there came a knock on the door, followed by his uncle’s voice.

“Emil?”

He sucked in a breath, reaching for one in deep blue wool. “Yes, Uncle?”

A heavy sigh. “… _Don’t_ ruin this, please.”

Apparently, he hadn’t been as discreet in his frustration as he’d thought. His hands shook as he did up the buttons. “I won’t.”

He _wouldn’t_. If he was to be doomed, then by God he would accept his fate with dignity. It was for the good of his family, after all.

By the time he took his seat on his uncle’s right at the dais, with an empty place set for Lady Tuuri at his own right hand, he thought he could even manage it. He wouldn’t be happy, but what did it matter? He would have Östersund eventually, and Mora would go to little Gustav when his uncle died. He could sacrifice his own happiness for that.

The herald lifted his trumpet and blew a few short blasts before announcing, “Lady Tuuri Hotakainen!” Emil held his breath as the great double doors were hauled open; he’d seen her portrait, but a portrait could lie.

His first thought as she strode in was that it hadn’t _lied_ , but neither had it told the truth. She was indeed fair and plump, round-faced, with silvery hair braided elegantly on top of her head, and the fur trim on her crimson damask houppelande looked to be ermine. The artist that had painted the portrait had somehow missed the look in her eyes, though; they were a pale gray, and swept the room like a winter wind. Before they could slice him to ribbons, he tore his gaze away to watch the rest of her retinue following her.

Emil barely noticed the heavyset woman at the head of Tuuri’s knights, because close on his fiancée’s heels there came a young man followed by, of all things, a tame lynx. This had to be Lalli, her—cousin? Brother? He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t think he cared.

Because Lalli was _beautiful_. Strange clothing, yes—tall boots up to his thighs, a rough-looking leather gambeson, and a bear’s-fur cloak thrown around his shoulders—but he was lean and tall, and as he lowered his hood Emil was favored with the sight of gleaming silver hair framing a narrow face with high cheekbones and a pointed nose. _A clever face_ , he thought, _a face that doesn’t miss anything_. He was somehow sure that if Lalli deigned to notice him, he would even see his heart hammering away in his chest.

A few feet away from the dais, Tuuri curtsied as her men genuflected. Her words washed over Emil without passing through his ears; Lalli was kneeling as well, but instead of keeping his head modestly bowed he lifted it to stare directly into Emil’s eyes. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, wasn’t entirely sure he was breathing; Lalli’s gray eyes transfixed him like spears, and he couldn’t look away.

The wedding hadn’t even taken place yet, and Emil had already ruined it.


	2. in which tuuri and lalli make some things very clear

They were engaged that very night. Honestly, Tuuri thought it was rather anticlimactic—but then again, so was her fiancé.

Not that she’d have been any more enthused either way, but…still. She’d heard Swedes were tall and handsome; Emil was admittedly very easy on the eyes, but _tall_ he was not. He was roughly the same height as Lalli, but more solid. And he didn’t seem to want to talk to her, which she couldn’t help but be relieved by.

(She had not cried when Onni had told her she would marry. She had _screamed_ , and the resulting fight had lasted until she’d been put on the boat to Sweden. Even when he’d begged her to speak with him, she had not turned around. Let him suffer.)

As she picked at her meal—which really was very tasty, she supposed that the quality of their table was one good thing about the Västerström estate—she cast a glance at Emil out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t looking at her; as he ate, his eyes drifted past her to where Lalli was sitting.

Lalli was staring back at him. Automatically, she jammed an elbow into his ribs. “ _Lalli_. What did I tell you about staring?” As he huffed and turned away to feed a bit of meat to his lynx under the table, she switched to Swedish to whisper to Emil. “I’m sorry, he spends a lot of time in the forests. He’s not very well-mannered.”

Unaccountably, Emil turned pink. “It’s—um. It’s alright. Really.” Seemingly desperate for a topic of conversation, he asked, “Does he hunt, then?”

Tuuri sighed. _And of course, nobody bothered to teach him anything about us, because that would make sense and not give me a headache. Wonderful._ “In a manner of speaking. He’s a shaman, like my brother; he speaks to the gods for us, and they bless us with plentiful game and good health.” As she watched his expression shift to confusion, her eyes narrowed. _Christian or not, there is a right way and a wrong way to react to what I’ve just told you. Figure out the right way, or this marriage will not be off to a good start._

Emil looked past her to Lalli again. “…Huh. That’s fascinating.”

Maybe she wouldn’t strangle him on their wedding night after all. “I’m glad you think so. I admit I had…concerns, when my lord brother told me that my husband was a Christian. So many of your people seem to have never read the book you follow; I _know_ there is something about loving one’s neighbors in there.”

He stared at her. “You read Latin?”

“And Finnish, French, Swedish, and a bit of Greek.”

One of the servants was pouring hippocras into his cup, the traditional symbol for the end of a meal, but he didn’t touch it. “…You are _very_ well-educated, then.”

She shrugged, trying to appear modest. “Saimaa is large, and we deal with many traders; I do what I can so that my brother may concentrate on more important affairs.” _Also, Onni is frightened of everything new and Lalli can’t be convinced to care._

He leaned towards her, dropping his voice to a whisper. “It sounds to me as though you do most of the important work while your menfolk pray, honestly.”

She couldn’t help but smile into her cup of hippocras. _It looks as though my marriage might not be entirely insufferable after all. At least he can see the work I do; if I am lucky, he’ll leave me alone to do it._ “Thank you.”

As the diners at the lower tables began to rise, Lady Västerström set down her empty goblet and cleared her throat. “Lady Tuuri, the hour grows late, and you must be very tired from your journey. Pray, allow my nephew to show you to your room.” It wasn’t a request, though it could have passed for one in a dark room at a distance.

Tuuri glanced down at what was left of her own wine and drained the cup at a single swallow. It burned all the way down, leaving clear focus in its wake; they were as good as married now, and nobody would fault her fiancé if he decided to anticipate the wedding night. Emil was already rising, offering his arm; as she took it, her own fingers strayed to the handle of her eating knife.

They walked in silence. He didn’t try to strike up a conversation; she could feel nervousness pouring off him in waves. With nothing else to do, she studied her surroundings. The painted walls were probably quite colorful in daylight, but candlelight instead lent them a faintly unsettling aspect, as though the birds and vines were chasing her. She huffed and turned her gaze forward as Emil led her up the winding staircase to her bedroom.

He stopped in front of the door, smoothing his hair back. It sparkled in the light. “So…here is your room, my lady, and I hope everything is to your liking.”

Her hand was on the doorknob before she thought to glance up at him. Suddenly, she had to know. “Aren’t you going to come in?”

He choked, eyes widening. “I—do you _want_ me to?!”

 _Not nervous_ , she realized. _He’s terrified._ “No. But you know your lady aunt and lord uncle are probably expecting you to; they would have had a maidservant escort me if they did not.”

It was brief, but there was no mistaking the expression that flickered across his face for anything other than revulsion. “Well, they expected wrong. I don’t…” He trailed off, face red, and looked away.

She frowned at him. “What?”

He sucked in a breath, letting it out in a sigh. His voice was quiet enough that she had to strain to hear it. “I don’t want to do this. _Any_ of this.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you think I do? Do you think I wanted to come here, to be sold like a prize broodmare to some Swede I’ve never even _heard_ of all because my brother is far too busy with his spiritual duties to take a wife—never mind that _I_ work just as hard! Do you think I wanted to be told that I have to marry a man who doesn’t keep my gods? Do you think I wanted to wake up and be told that, no matter what I’d thought, my greatest value was as a—as a—”

“—Bargaining chip—”

“Bargaining chip, yes, thank you. No, I didn’t, but we’re here for our families’ sakes, aren’t we?”

He nodded slowly. He was still red, and patting his hair down nervously, but at least he was looking in her direction. “It…it looks like we’re in the same boat, at least. I…look, I’ll let you get some sleep. I’m sorry about all this, really.”

Something about the sincerity in his voice made her feel a little better, and she patted his arm reassuringly. “We’ll survive. Good night, my lord.”

“Good night, my lady.”

\--

As he made his way to his own chamber, Emil realized there was no way he was going to get to sleep anytime soon. Too much had happened during the day, and his mind whirled as he tried to sort it all out. Finally meeting his fiancée hadn’t been as horrible as he’d feared—if she truly knew all those languages, she was definitely more of a scholar than he was, which would be useful when they ruled Östersund. _And she seems nice enough. Argh, I should have asked her if she has a lover back home, made sure she knew I wouldn’t mind at all. Maybe she’ll find one. I hope it’s some blond guy; nobody will raise any questions about her children then._

He’d make sure of that. If she was free to pursue her own interests, she wouldn’t look too closely at his. And after meeting Lalli—well. It was probably too much to hope for that Tuuri’s cousin shared his taste for men (even if he had been staring at him, even if once or twice Emil had looked up and sworn he’d caught Lalli watching him with interest), but at least he’d be able to see him.

And they’d be able to talk on the trip back to Finland. He didn’t know if Lalli spoke Swedish beyond the polite greeting he’d muttered shortly after they’d arrived, but he was absolutely willing to learn Finnish if he had to; those keen eyes had sliced deep into his heart, and even the thought of them made him feel a little faint. _God, let us be friends. Let us at least be friends, if we can be nothing else._

When he turned a corner and nearly collided with him as he came down another corridor, he yelped out loud.

“God’s _teeth_ , Lalli—!”

Lalli looked as startled as he felt. Even his massive lynx was bristling by his side. Slowly, both the man and the lynx relaxed, though both were staring at him.

When a few moments passed without Lalli saying a word, he felt compelled to fill the silence. “You shouldn’t wander around the castle by yourself at night, it’s a good way to get lost. Didn’t someone show you where your room is? I could take you there.”

Lalli blinked at him slowly. Emil thought he could see the words translating themselves in his head; when they came out, he didn’t even have much of an accent. “I know where my room is. I was just walking.”

Words bounced around Emil’s head— _do you want me to show you around, I can get you into the cellars if you want to have a drink with me, I can show you where_ my _room is_ —but he found he couldn’t say any of them. “Um. Alright. I can’t—I can’t blame you, sometimes a walk is really what you need after a feast like that. You should be careful if you go into the main hall, the dogs might go after your lynx…”

Oh, God in heaven. A muscle in Lalli’s cheek was twitching in what Emil was pretty sure was the ghost of a smile. “Nothing can catch Veli. You don’t need to worry.”

He glanced down to the lynx in question, which had sat down and begun diligently (and adorably) washing its face with a paw. “Aww. You must love him very much, if you brought him all the way over here. I’ve never met anyone with a tame lynx before.”

Now Lalli was definitely smiling, but there was little warmth in it. “Oh, he’s not tame. He’ll tear out the throat of anyone I ask him to.”

His heart thumped hard as he looked back up into Lalli’s face. He knew he should be terrified, but he couldn’t help but smile. “I will _never_ give you a reason to ask him.”

Lalli’s expression shifted to something bordering on skeptical. “Tuuri’s not interested in this union.”

“Neither am I.”

Oh, shit. Oh, _shit_ , he had _not_ just said that out loud.

He had, because Lalli was taking a few steps closer, head tilted curiously as he gazed into his eyes. “Really.”

Emil wasn’t sure he remembered how to breathe. Lalli’s gaze was flickering from his eyes to his mouth; this close, he could almost smell the wine he’d had earlier. Without thinking, he clasped his forearm lightly. “Really.” _Kiss me. Kiss me before I do something stupid._

Lalli stopped; the noise that escaped him sounded like nothing so much as a curious cat. But he wasn’t pulling away, and it would be so easy to lean in. If he blamed it on having had too much to drink, he might even get away with it. If he was brave.

He wasn’t. “…Good night, sir.” His voice didn’t shake at all.

Before he could second-guess himself, he pulled away and turned down the corridor to his rooms.

\--

When Lalli learned that they would be going back home over land instead of by sea—the sea serpents were mating in earnest this year, and it would be far too risky for them to sail until long past the time of year when the weather would make the gulf downright lethal—he breathed a sigh of relief. He _hated_ boats; he’d been sick as a dog for the entire voyage to Sweden.

And…well. It would give him more chances to look at Emil. Emil, who was handsome and charming and had looked very much like he’d wanted to kiss him. (Emil, who was Tuuri’s fiancé and seemed to be a depressingly honest and honorable man, so Lalli knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up, but _maybe_ …)

They stayed at the Västerström castle for a week to prepare for the journey north and plot a route that would take them well out of the way of Östersund. He’d thought Emil might actually kiss him when he found him hiding from his three terror-cousins in the cellar (it had just been them, cool and dark and secluded, and Emil had brushed cobwebs from his hair), but then Lady Sigrun had found them both and dragged them into the training yard. When Emil’s objectively awful swordplay hadn’t even made him want to shake his head in disgust, he began to realize that he might have a problem.

Thankfully, before he could really begin cursing the gods that had seen fit to subject him to those feelings, the physician that the Västerströms had hired to ensure that they made it to Saimaa in one piece finally arrived. The day after Mikkel of Bornholm rode through the castle gates on his dapple gray mare, they were ready to leave.

He tried not to watch as Emil hugged his family goodbye. It was too much of an unpleasant reminder that the man would rather be here, in Sweden, than leaving for the forests and lakes Lalli called home. But then Emil was pulling away and swinging himself into the saddle, flashing Lalli a smile. “Shall we?”

He took a breath and nodded. _Gods above, I hope he stays in Saimaa for a long, long time._

Ahead of them, Sigrun called out, “Come on! We’re wasting daylight here!”

The castle gates swung open, and he nudged his horse forward. The road stretched out in front of them.


	3. in which emil takes a chance

Two weeks into their journey north, Sigrun decided that Emil’s dogs and goshawk were more useful on the road than he was. While he wasn’t _useless_ —he rode well, at least, and he was decent enough with a crossbow—his swordsmanship hadn’t improved, he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a longbow if he had his nose up against it, and he spent entirely too much time on his hair. This last might have been forgivable if they were traveling on main roads or rivers, but the need to avoid Östersund had seen them taking…detours.

Well. The lady Tuuri called them detours, and she was the one who had memorized the map. Sigrun suspected they were getting lost, but she didn’t mind; they might run into monsters or bandits, and then they’d finally have a chance to fight something. With any luck, Lalli’s hunting skills would translate well to combat, and Emil wouldn’t disgrace himself too much.  For now, they rode quietly along a forest path. The only noises were their horses’ hooves, Emil calling for one or the other of his enormous slobbery dogs behind her, and Tuuri humming a cheerful tune she didn’t recognize.

She tilted her head, thinking hard. “…Huh. Strange.”

Mikkel steered his horse closer to hers. “What?”

She liked Mikkel, even if he was dour, pessimistic, lived to contradict her, and had convinced Emil that he would catch the plague if he didn’t sleep in a position which incidentally stopped him snoring. “In Norway this time of year, the trees would be full of birds. I haven’t heard any; have you?”

He frowned and gazed off into the trees. “Not since we left the main road.”

“Hrm.” She glanced back over her shoulder. Tuuri was looking at her surroundings with every indication of pleasure; Emil had dropped back to ride next to Lalli, his dogs flanking Lalli’s lynx for all the world as though they were part of the same pack. (She supposed they sort of were, once the obligatory standoff had been settled; the scratches across Roffe’s nose were already healed.)

“We should tell the young ones. Something might be tracking us.”

She flashed him her signature grin, the one with the teeth. “Yeah, I guess they deserve some time to make sure their weaponry is in working order before it leaps out at us.”

“ _Lady Sigrun_.”

He was glaring at her, but she ignored him. “Hey, kids!”

“Yes, Lady Sigrun?”

“Huh?”

“Mrr?”

“Weapons if you’ve got ‘em. We might be heading into trouble.”

Emil gulped audibly. “What kind of trouble?”

She paused, listening. _We’re not that close to water and I don’t hear any singing, so it shouldn’t be a nøkke, and I didn’t see any signs of trolls or ogres. And I don’t hear wings…_ “Not sure yet. Just be on guard.”

Now they rode in silence, trees casting dappled shadows across their path. As they turned to rejoin a major road, the spaces between the trees grew wider; more light spilled through the leaves, and Sigrun couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed at the realization that probably nothing was going to ambush them.

And then Tuuri’s horse pulled up beside hers and stopped. Their little noblewoman was gazing wide-eyed and fixatedly on the sky.

“What is that?”

 _What?_ “Oh.” She shaded her eyes with her hand, squinting up at the circling shape above them. “Just a dragon; if we keep this pace, it shouldn’t notice us.”

Tuuri stared at her, jaw falling open. When she found her voice, it was a squeak. “ _Just_ a dragon?”

Emil sounded incredulous. “You don’t have dragons in Finland?”

“No! We have—we have swamp drakes and river wyrms, but we don’t have _dragons_.” She turned to gaze up at it, eyes soft with wonder. “It’s beautiful.”

“And they make very good leather—oof!” Mikkel rubbed his side where Sigrun’s elbow had landed. “They do. Shame that the meat is so foul.”

Tuuri looked worried. “I hope we don’t have to kill it.”

Sigrun kind of hoped they would—the trip so far had been really boring—but she decided not to say that.

\--

The dragon was still following them as they came upon the main road. Open spaces didn’t make Emil feel any better; dragons preferred to dive for exposed prey, and they were _very_ exposed once they left the forest. Gunilla was a nervous ball of feathers on his fist; he found himself hunching into his hood as though that would help.

He glanced over at Lalli (who was coolly and calmly stringing his recurve bow, and that wasn’t ominous _at all)_ and decided to risk speaking. “Do you think—”

Even from its great height, the dragon’s shadow fell across them. He shut up.

As they rode, he kept one eye on the sky. The dragon was circling steadily, flying a slow spiral above them. It didn’t appear to be in a hurry, which he supposed was a good thing. He briefly bowed his head, fingers knotting nervously around his reins. _Dear God in heaven, let it pass us by. Let it find a nice herd of cows or something to eat. Let it not be interested in us, for we are skinny and bony and probably don’t taste very good._

The dragon-shape in the sky was growing larger as it descended. Tryggve and Roffe started growling in concert; Tuuri made a terrified little noise as Mikkel grabbed her horse’s reins and steered her into the relative safety under the forest canopy. He let Gunilla’s jesses slip from his fingers; if he died here, at least he wouldn’t take his bird with him. _God, what sin have I committed?_ Entirely without his conscious input, his gaze flicked over to Lalli again. The Finn was dismounting, gaze fixed on the approaching dragon as he fitted an arrow to his bow. His every movement was calm and steady, and it made something in the area of Emil’s heart thump painfully. _You are not telling me that lustful thoughts count._

Ahead of him, Sigrun’s horse stopped. Her sword slowly cleared its sheath, and he felt his mind go slow with horror as the light gleamed off the metal. Dragons were known to be attracted by shiny things. When she bellowed, “Come on, you overgrown lizard!” he thought his heart would stop.

 _No. Oh, no._ He should—he should be doing something. Helping. Bits of Sigrun’s lectures filtered through his mind sluggishly, coalesced into action; with shaky hands, he drew his crossbow and tried to load it. It was a light crossbow, one he usually used for hunting deer, but he didn’t know what sort of bolts you used to hunt _dragons_ —

There was no time to worry about that, because it was diving for Sigrun. It was a dark-gray-and-white behemoth, with grasping talons like an eagle’s and ridged scales too dull with dust to shine in the sunlight; Emil only noticed its shape in passing, because Sigrun was dropping her sword and nocking an arrow to her strung bow. Her shot punctured a wing, and she spurred her horse out of the way of its return thin jet of flame.

 _Shitshitshit—!_ His gelding reared in terror, and he spared a moment to thank God for his old riding master who had insisted he learn to stay in the saddle no matter what. Once all four of its hooves were back on the ground—it seemed to be too terrified to actually bolt, and he was thankful for that as well—he tried to shoulder his crossbow. He had to make his shot count, because he might not get another one. If only the hellbeast would come closer, just for a moment—but it was arcing in the air, blood streaming from its injured wing, and for a moment he thought (hoped) it would just fly away.

And then it circled back around, fire flickering in its throat, and he froze. For a too-long moment, all he could see was its open maw surrounded by razor-sharp teeth, lit from within by the very fires of hell itself. It was heading straight for him, there was no way he could miss—

The bolt punched into its shoulder. It screeched and twisted in the air; as it backwinged frantically, two more arrows slammed into the joint where wing met body. Blood splattered on the dirt like rain.

 _What?_ He thought, and then _Lalli_. He wasn’t sure where Lalli was, and he didn’t dare take his eyes off the dragon long enough to look around, but some small part of him thrilled at seeing the man’s skill with a bow against a creature like this one.

The dragon was falling. It was massive, and it was falling out of the sky, and some instinct had him putting his spurs to his horse’s flanks and wheeling around, cantering down the road. Even as he rode, he felt the impact behind him; the shockwave almost bowled him out of the saddle. When the ground had stopped shaking, he turned back.

It had crashed on its side onto the road, and was twisting to right itself. One wing hung useless and at least two of its legs had given way with terrible cracks, but even a grounded dragon had teeth like swords and claws like daggers—not that it could kick, with Roffe and Tryggve snapping at its hamstrings. (His dogs were braver than he was. Wonderful.) Sigrun had leapt off her horse to grab her dropped sword; now she charged at it, screaming, but a flip of its wing knocked her off her feet. Up close the dragon was easily the size of a house, and it filled his vision with scales and edges and fire. He couldn’t see Lalli, which meant—

Which meant that he was somewhere on the other side of its massive bulk. The side to which it was lolling its head, mouth opening…

Emil drew his sword and kicked his horse into a charge. Time felt as though it flowed like syrup. He saw the dragon stop _(good)_ , turn slowly to meet his approach _(uh-oh)_ , realize he was a threat and lunge forward _(he was going to die, and he hadn’t even_ — _)_.

And then it dropped, very suddenly and without any fanfare, as an arrow pierced its eye. He hauled on the reins, skidding to a stop inches away from its head.

Lalli lowered his bow. He was glaring at him over the dragon’s head, and Emil swallowed hard at the look on his face.

Very carefully, he dismounted and took a few steps towards him. His voice wavered, and he hated it. “Are you—are you hurt?”

 “No.”

His voice was flat and grumpy, and it made Emil’s insides clench. “Oh. Good.” His limbs felt like lead; he didn’t realize he was starting to fold up until his knees hit the dirt. Flies were already starting to gather around the dragon’s corpse; Roffe and Tryggve didn’t seem to care about the supposed foul taste of dragon meat. _God, that was—that was—I could have died—_

Sigrun’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder. “You did well.”

Lalli didn’t talk to him at all until they stopped for the night. With no inns for another day’s ride, they were forced to make camp again, with the women in one tent and him and Lalli in another. (Mikkel had his own; he was far too big to squeeze in with them.) Emil had never camped out in the fields before this trip, but he’d been surprised to discover that he hadn’t minded it as much as he’d thought he would have. Sleeping on the cold ground took some getting used to, but the tent was warm enough with two people in it (even if they never touched, even if he so desperately _wanted_ to touch). Tonight, though, was somehow much colder with the difference in Lalli’s brand of silence. Their tent was as quiet as a tomb.

As they pulled their boots off, Emil took a deep breath and decided to break the silence. _Someone_ had to; he’d quickly learned that Lalli was perfectly capable of not speaking for days if he felt like it. “What did I do?”

Lalli huffed and twisted, wriggling out of his own tall boots. The sun was setting, but the light that filtered through the fabric of the tent was still strong enough for Emil to get a good look at his legs in their tight hose. “You were going to stab it.”

Emil stared at him, barely believing his own ears. “I didn’t want it to eat you!”

If he didn’t know better, he would almost swear that Lalli was flushing. He certainly wasn’t looking at him, and his voice was very quiet. “…You…are ridiculous.”

Realization dawned at his tone, and his heart melted. _God, You do love me after all_. “…Oh. You were _worried_.”

 “Of course.” Lalli’s lips twitched. “You’re soft.”

“Hey!”

Lalli was definitely smiling. It was a rare expression on his face; warm and just a bit smug, it always made Emil feel a little faint. “I _probably_ could have shot that without your help.”

Dear God, that was as good an expression of thanks as he could have hoped for. He dared to nudge Lalli’s arm with his own. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t die.”

“Mrr.” Oh. Lalli was tilting his head, leaning over to press against him from shoulder to thigh. Emil forgot to breathe; like this, he was suddenly very aware of the warmth of Lalli’s body spilling through his clothes. And then, so quietly Emil almost wasn’t sure he heard it, “Why?”

He sucked in a breath. They were so close; if he turned, he could press his lips to Lalli’s cheek. “…I…like you.”

Lalli’s voice was almost a purr as he gazed at him; Emil didn’t need to turn his head to feel his eyes on him, steady and intent. Fingertips came to rest lightly on his thigh; it could have been an accidental touch, but then Lalli pressed gently and he knew it wasn’t. “…I like you, too.”

Not for the first time that day, Emil thought he might die. Dimly, he thought he should probably say something, but there didn’t seem to be room for any words in his head beyond the great all-encompassing feeling of _god, I am a lucky man._

So instead, he kissed him. For a heartstopping second, Lalli tensed in surprise—but then he was kissing him back, one hand coming up to bury itself in Emil’s hair. Emil wrapped his arms around him, tugging him as close as they could be and discovering to his great pleasure that Lalli really _was_ the best armful he could possibly have; when he slid a hand up Lalli’s back, he sighed and shifted into it. He lingered in the kiss until he needed air, and then he only broke away to breathe, “Thank _God_.”

Lalli almost looked honestly curious, but there was a suggestion of a smirk around his mouth (which was dark with kisses now; god, _he_ had done that). “Mine? Or your weird one?”

“…It’s too late to talk about religion now.” As far as Emil was concerned, it was too late to talk, period. Especially when kisses might be on the table.

Lalli huffed, tugging Emil down onto the blanket and stretching out half on top of him. “Too late to do _anything_. You should have kissed me before.”

His face burned. This would be difficult; they’d have to sneak time away from everyone, and god(s) knew how their companions would react if they found out, but… “Tomorrow, I’ll make up for it.”

“Mmm.” Lalli yawned, buried his face in Emil’s doublet, and went immediately to sleep. He was smiling.


	4. in which the team gains a new member

Lalli wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or not when they came upon a small village the next day. On one hand, there was a distinct likelihood of a real bed and a decent meal. On the other hand, he wouldn’t be sharing that bed with Emil.

He glanced over at the man and thought he’d pick the tent. Emil had kissed him again that morning, brief but thorough enough to make him crave more; Lalli thought he could still feel the pressure of his mouth on his. They hadn’t really spoken since then, but they rode close enough that their knees almost touched, and that was good. He’d take whatever he could get on their journey—there was no way Emil would still want to after they got to Saimaa. Even if he’d been telling the truth about not being _interested_ in Tuuri (and Lalli thought he might be; he hadn’t laid a hand on her except to help her down from the saddle), he’d be a married man, with a married man’s responsibilities.

But for now, Emil was riding next to him, and he must have felt the weight of his eyes on him because he looked over and _smiled_. It was sweet and dopey and it made Lalli’s heart kick up into his throat. He prayed his face gave nothing away.

The town was barely worthy of the name—it wasn’t much more than a few streets of packed earth lined with stone cottages—but there was an inn for the safety of travelers on the road. The women rode at the head of their group as they entered the courtyard; at the sight of Sigrun’s shining plate armor and Tuuri’s sable cloak, two grooms all but tripped over themselves to feed and water their horses.

When another man approached Lalli’s horse, Veli hissed at him. He took a step backwards. “Uh. My lord, your…your pet…”

Emil swung himself easily down from the saddle, burying his fingers in the lynx’s thick fur. “I assure you he’s as tame as my hounds, my good man.”

The groom eyed the dogs in question. Tryggve’s tongue was lolling out; Roffe wagged his tail. To Lalli’s eyes, nothing could diminish the fact that they were slobbery, smelly mounds of fur and teeth, but he supposed they were making a good effort. “…As you say, my lord.”

Lalli slid down from the saddle, stretching to relieve the ache of being on horseback for hours. He was vaguely aware that Sigrun, Tuuri, and Mikkel were heading inside and that he should join them, but Veli was shoving his entire head into Emil’s hand and purring loudly enough that Lalli could hear him from where he stood. “He likes you.”

Emil smiled, rubbing the top of the lynx’s head. “He likes everyone. Did you see him with my lady last night?”

Lalli sighed with fond exasperation at that. “Tuuri’s known him since he was a cub, it’s different.” And he’d certainly never seen Veli roll over for belly rubs before.

They entered the inn side by side, but even Emil’s presence couldn’t stop Lalli from wincing at the sight of the place. It wasn’t as foul as it could be—he’d slept in worse places—but the soot-stained walls and low ceiling made him feel like the building was pressing in on him, and the stench of too many unwashed people in such a small space seemed to immediately climb into his nostrils and stay there. _Maybe I can sleep outside. That would be nice._

Tuuri didn’t appear to notice. The innkeeper was dancing attendance on her, and she was motioning him and Emil forward to join them. Reluctantly, Lalli went.

\--

Several hours later, he was still deciding if the food made up for the atmosphere. It was good food—sausages, smoked ham, thick slices of dark rye bread, turnip stew so thick and filling that he could barely manage a few bites—but the inn had filled up since they arrived, the rushlights stank and gave off foul-smelling smoke, and their fellow travelers were loud enough that he was starting to consider hiding under the table.

A young man chose that moment to sit down across from him, and Lalli hated him a little for it. He was tall and wiry, wearing dull and travel-stained clothes under a rough wool cloak, and for some reason he had his hood up indoors. It didn’t manage to hide his bright red hair at all; from the way his hood was falling, there was a lot of hair to hide. Something about his face reminded Lalli of Tryggve, and he thought about telling Emil about it. Later, though, when he wasn’t separated from him by Mikkel sitting between them.

The redhead asked a question in what Lalli thought was probably Swedish, but between the noise of the inn and his heavy accent it sounded like gibberish to his ears.

Apparently, it didn’t sound like gibberish to Tuuri. “Yes, we are! When are you leaving?”

Ugh, the man looked even more like a puppy with that excited grin on his face.  At least his voice was clearer once Lalli was listening for it. “Tomorrow! And you seem like a well-equipped group of travelers, so I was wondering if…I could travel with you?”

Sigrun leaned her elbows on the table. “What can you do? We don’t have room for dead weight.”

“Um.” He swallowed hard. “I can cook and clean?”

“Can you fight?” That was Mikkel, frowning at him.

He sat back on the bench, looking stunned. “No! I was—I was a lay brother in Thingeyrar…”

Lalli grimaced into his beer. _Ew_. Being surrounded by Christians was bad enough without adding a near-monk to the mix; every priest that had ever come to Saimaa had required violence to shift. Onni had had to throw one off the pier once. 

Unfortunately, Tuuri looked fascinated; she was leaning forward, gazing at the newcomer with every sign of curiosity. “You came here all the way from Iceland?”

Huh, he was blushing. Interesting. “Well…uh…yes…” He coughed, glancing away. “So can I come with you?”

Sigrun frowned in concentration, but slowly nodded. “…Alright. Meet us at dawn—hey, what’s your name again?”

“Reynir, my lady.”

As introductions went out, Lalli sat back and eyed their newcomer. He’d make a good servant, if nothing else. And he kept stealing glances at Tuuri, which showed…promise. Not flirting, nothing so obvious as that, but he was obviously interested if you knew what to look for. Lalli was slightly cheered to notice that Tuuri kept looking back, though she kept her head modestly bowed. When Reynir smiled at her and asked her how Saimaa was, she actually blushed.

And he didn’t seem to be put off by her introduction of Emil as her fiancé, which very nearly made Lalli smirk into his plate. If the gods were kind, this Reynir would keep her distracted for however long they traveled together.

He eyed Reynir’s hair. It really _was_ red, vibrantly so. _Hopefully, not very distracted. Just enough—gods, just enough so that she looks the other way, I don’t want to know how she’d react if she…_ He sipped his beer and thought. _Probably just question my taste. But…still._

\--

He was still thinking about it after they’d washed themselves and turned in for the night. The inn’s only sleeping chamber was a cramped room packed with beds. It was warm and reasonably clean, but they all had to double up, and he couldn’t sleep. He’d gotten far too used to Emil’s faint yet persistent snoring in his ear, and no matter that the man was stretched out next to Tuuri in the next bed over; it wasn’t close enough.

As quietly as possible, he slipped out from under the blanket and padded out into the hall. Air would help, surely. The guard dogs rolled over and snuffled as he passed, but didn’t wake up; Roffe nudged his shin, and he leaned down to pat the dog’s head. Emil’s hounds weren’t so bad as long as they weren’t trying to lick him.

He stood in the darkness and breathed. _Tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll be back in the tent, and we can curl up together, and nobody will know. Gods, let me just have that. Let me just…_

Footsteps sounded behind him, and he somehow knew who it was going to be before he turned.

He turned anyway. Emil was a darker patch in the shadow; moonlight picked out the gleam of his hair and the shine of his eyes, so at least Lalli knew what direction to frown in. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Emil’s voice was barely a whisper. “I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about you.”

 _Oh_. Lalli’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. “…Come here.”

He’d expected to wrap his arms around him, rest his head on his shoulder. When Emil instead came forward and reached out a hesitant hand to trace along his cheek and up into his hair, he couldn’t help but purr and lean into it, eyes sliding shut. Emil clearly took that as encouragement, because the next thing Lalli felt was lips pressed to his own.

“Mmm.” His hands settled on Emil’s hips, tugging him closer, and he thought _more_. Emil tangled his fingers in his hair and deepened the kiss. His other hand just seemed to _fit_ between his shoulderblades, and when Emil’s palm flattened against his spine he growled and dug his fingers into his hips in response.

Emil’s hips rolled, grinding against him, and he had to pull away for a moment to breathe. That really felt _entirely_ too good. Emil didn’t seem too inclined to stop, either; as soon as his mouth left Lalli’s, he was ducking his head to kiss along his jaw, too light to leave marks but with enough heat to make him squirm and wriggle. His breath sounded too loud to his ears, and he prayed that the dogs wouldn’t wake and start barking. _Quiet, we have to be quiet—_

Emil didn’t appear to have internalized that fact. Still, at least he managed to keep his voice low as he breathed next to Lalli’s ear, “I missed you.”

He sucked in a breath. “So did I—ah—but this is a bad place for it…”

Emil huffed quietly, pulling away with a final pet to his hair. “Right. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” Gods help him, but Emil looked so hopeful at his words that he couldn’t resist leaning forward to steal a quick, final kiss. “Sleep now.”

“You know you make that hard to do…”

“Emil. _Sleep_.”

Emil sighed and turned to trudge back into their chamber. After a moment, Lalli followed him.

\--

They made it another two days of traveling before they ran into the troll. Almost literally ran into it, in fact; as the sun set Emil had wound up at the front of their line of horses, and he was half-asleep in his saddle as they approached a tiny, ramshackle bridge. Gunilla’s talons sinking into his glove roused him just as something shifted in the shadowy hole across the stream, and he stopped and squinted into the gloom. “Ah, Sigrun? Lalli?”

“It’s probably a badger.” But Sigrun had her hand on her sword, and she was sliding to the ground for a better look.

It looked way too big to be a badger. Emil thought he could see the suggestion of arms, a hulking manlike figure, the gleam of sharp bared teeth, and his blood ran cold. “Uh. Maybe we should leave—”

The troll lumbered into the water, dragging its club behind it. Emil saw the exact moment it noticed them as a threat—it stopped, eyes locking onto Reynir, and roared.

And then it charged, and Sigrun sprinted to meet it.

 _Oh, fuck_. Emil sat frozen on his horse; he couldn’t shoot his crossbow without risking hitting Sigrun and he’d never fought alongside anyone in melee, there was nothing he could—wait. “Roffe! Tryggve! Get ‘im!”

The dogs didn’t waste air barking—they only charged in unison, teeth bared, and circled around to harry the troll from behind. It turned, club sweeping around, but that meant it was taking its attention from Sigrun, who immediately sank her sword into its gut. Emil swore; the thing was still standing, and now it had decided Sigrun was the greater threat.

There was a thump behind him as Lalli slipped down from the saddle. He was whispering something in Finnish, quick and flowing, and dashed into the fray like a striking snake. Emil rocked back in the saddle in shock; the man was outlined in silver light, crackling along his spine, and for a moment he wasn’t sure whether the sharp edges in Lalli’s hands were knives or claws.

The troll went to one knee in a spray of blood, and Sigrun brought her sword up in a glimmering arc to finish the job. Its head splashed into the stream. Its body followed.

Emil’s pulse was pounding in his ears, but he could hear Lalli breathing hard. The retching behind him was probably Reynir; Tuuri was murmuring soothing words to him, which sounded like they were helping.

He had no idea what he’d just seen. _Tuuri said Lalli was a shaman. I thought that was—like a priest? That light, though, God—are we traveling with a witch? Was it some sort of curse or—am I seeing things, or…_ He wheeled his horse around to get both Tuuri and Lalli in his field of vision. “What the Devil was _that?”_

“A troll.” Mikkel looked astoundingly unimpressed; he supposed a physician had seen worse things.

“Not that!” At a loss for words, he gestured to Lalli. _“That.”_

Tuuri smiled thinly. She wasn’t actually touching Reynir, but her eyes kept straying in his direction. “…Magic.”

Emil stared from her to Lalli in turn. Both Finns met his stare with perfectly blank expressions; if this was a joke, they were very committed to it. “That’s Finnish magic?”

She raised an eyebrow. “What were you expecting?”

He shut his mouth on what wanted to come out— _blighting crops, cursing children, fraternizing with the Devil—_ and muttered, “Not that.” It had been terrifying, but some deep part of him was awestruck—Lalli had been so fast, so dizzyingly lethal. It made Emil want to kiss him.

“…So you’re not going to curse us?”

Lalli turned to stare at Reynir. Emil recognized that look; it was the one that said, clear as day, _you are too stupid to bother scolding_. He’d been the recipient himself when he’d fallen for one of Mikkel’s pranks. “No.”

“Oh. _Good_.” Reynir looked relieved.

And then he swooned in the saddle, and Tuuri lunged half out of her own seat to catch him.


	5. in which emil probably shouldn't be allowed near cute things

Three weeks into their journey, they found the dragon.

Their route had taken them into the mountains; the coast wasn’t safe this time of year, not with the sea serpents mating and laying their eggs in any river wider than a small creek. It added a week to their journey, but Emil couldn’t complain about it. Not when he was still sharing a tent with Lalli, not when the man (his fiancée’s cousin, and he was _not_ going to let himself think about how badly he was going to burn in hell for it) pressed up against him and sighed, not when they stole moments late at night or early in the morning or—once—in the middle of the afternoon when they should have been hunting for their dinner.

There hadn’t been so many of those moments in the past few days. Sigrun was pushing them hard; Emil didn’t feel the need for it, and said so.

She frowned at him. “Look, if you want to linger around all these rocks, be my guest. I’ll be happy to tell your lady that you got eaten by a dragon.”

Emil automatically glanced down to where the other half of their team was waiting with their animals for them to scout out the path. Tuuri was petting Gunilla’s head carefully. “There are dragons here? Will they be safe?”

“Mikkel has a crossbow and that mace of his, and we’ll definitely hear if anything attacks ‘em. Dragons aren’t subtle.” She grinned, sudden and sharp, which didn’t help at all.

“Hrm.” He decided to stay quiet, hanging back as Sigrun clanked around the bend in the road. The path was narrow and they’d have to ride single file when they took the horses up, but he was pretty sure they could make it without backtracking. The rocks rose up around them like jagged teeth, lichen-covered and rough enough to scrape his skin when he brushed against them. He wondered what dragon nests looked like, if they nested like birds or lived in caves like trolls. _Probably caves. What did that dragon hunter say, that week he stayed with us in Mora?_

Something screeched above them, and he stopped so abruptly that Lalli nearly crashed into his back. “What was that?”

Lalli looked up, shading his eyes with his hand. “Not a bird.”

It screeched again, small and sad and oddly resonant. No, it definitely wasn’t a bird. It sounded like an infant _something_ —a wyvern, maybe. Emil frowned at the cliff face. “I’m going to go see.”

“…Can you climb?”

He had the nerve to look skeptical, and Emil couldn’t resist the urge to thwack his arm ( _lightly_ , the last thing he wanted was for Lalli to think he was really angry at him). “Of course I can. It doesn’t sound far; I’ll be fine.”

Lalli glanced at the stones. “Be sensible.”

That was a Lalli version of another man’s heartfelt “good luck,” so Emil stole a quick kiss, set his hands to the stone, and started to climb. It wasn’t very hard going; the cliff sloped sharply but it wasn’t completely vertical, and so he could scramble up with his hands and feet and determinedly not look down. _If I fall…_ As he climbed, the end of that line of thought changed from _Lalli will definitely think I’m ridiculous_ to _I’ll probably break something_. He could _feel_ how high up he was.

As he neared the top, an unpleasant smell reached his nostrils—something up there was very dead, and had been for a while. He thought about climbing back down, but the thing was still calling. It sounded plaintive and desperate, and his heart twinged in sympathy. When he finally hauled himself up to the top of the cliff, the sight in front of him made him stare.

A dead rock drake—like a stocky, short-necked, less graceful dragon, more body and legs than wings and tail—lay sprawled around a scratched-out hollow in the rock. It was only about horse-sized, but Emil wasn’t sure if that meant it was young or just a runt. The arrows studding its wings and puncturing its side gave some clue as to how it had died. _Probably injured and flew away to die, poor thing._ Whatever was making that noise was on the other side of what remained of its tail; hesitantly, he got to his feet and took a few hesitant steps forward to see what it was.

A red-splotched drake hatchling, wings still useless at such a young age, blinked huge yellow-green eyes up at him.

“Oh, _no_.” It was only about the size of a large housecat, and as it let out another plaintive cry he gave in to the urge to go to it. Having to clamber over its dead parent wasn’t _too_ disgusting as long as he held his breath, but then he was inches away from the first baby dragon-like thing he had ever seen, and it wasn’t leaping for his face or trying to eat his ankles. It was _cute_.

He held out a hand, and it sniffed at his fingers. When it sneezed and no sparks came out, he began to get an idea. _I’ve read about people taming swamp drakes, so…_

“Hey, Lalli! You won’t believe what I found!”

\--

Ever since stowing away on the boat to Norway, Reynir had woken up with the same thought in his head: he had _never_ been so far from Iceland before. Now that he was no longer traveling alone, relying only on his staff and the monk’s hood he had never earned for protection, that hadn’t changed—but it had been joined by other, less pleasant thoughts.

Thoughts like _the lady Tuuri keeps smiling at me_ and _what am I going to do?_ Because she was engaged to a _lord_ —well, alright, to someone who Reynir understood should have been a lord if not for some long-standing feud with another noble family that had spilled over into bloody war. Reynir, meanwhile, was the son and grandson of shepherds. He’d have no chance even if she wasn’t promised to another; she deserved a brave and handsome knight, at the very least. And then there was the fact that she was a pagan with shamans ( _witches_ , he kept thinking before stopping himself) for family, which he was sure should horrify him but somehow didn’t seem to matter very much.

But for right now, they and Mikkel were standing in a ring of their horses, Emil’s dogs (who were _adorable)_ and Lalli’s lynx (who was terrifying, but Lalli had—according to Tuuri’s translation—told it very sternly to _stay_ and it seemed to be listening). Tuuri was petting Emil’s goshawk, and it made Reynir smile to see it. “The bird seems fond of you, my lady.”

She glanced up at him. “Oh, she likes everyone. Would you like to pet her?”

He could feel his face heating up, and he knew he was turning the same color as his hair. “Um. Alright?” She held out the gloved hand she was carrying the goshawk on, and he very carefully stretched out a hand to scratch lightly at the bird’s neck. “Like this?”

“Mm-hmm.” Her smile made his heart thump hard against his ribs, and she was—oh _no_ , she was sidling closer. “See, she likes it.”

Indeed, the bird was leaning into his hand and making a little noise that Reynir supposed meant happiness since it wasn’t trying to savage his fingers. “I’m glad. I…um. I shouldn’t like to travel with you if it was causing strife, my lady. I can see that you all get along well.”

She shrugged her shoulders, which was horribly unladylike but didn’t bother him at all. “We’ve had plenty of time to get to know each other. And…well. I think you fit in just fine here. Do you—do you think you’re going to come all the way to Finland with us? Since you said you wanted to see as much of the world as you could, and…”

He swallowed hard. “Uh. I really wouldn’t wish to impose. I don’t think Lady Sigrun or your noble cousin like me very much.”

Tuuri waved her free hand dismissively. “Lady Sigrun likes you perfectly well, and Lalli is just grumpy—but he doesn’t hate you. If he did, he’d ignore you completely.”

He eyed her. Lalli was scary. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but are you sure?” An impulse popped into his head, and before he could stop himself he added, “I might think you’re just trying to convince me to stay.” _Oh, God. I’m an idiot._

She bit her lip, looking up at him. “You’re an easy man to like, Reynir.”

Mikkel was cleaning his horse’s hooves; there was nothing to stop Reynir from laying a hand on Tuuri’s arm, and so he did. Tuuri seemed to like him, so… “Your words honor me.”

Tuuri smiled and leaned into his touch, and Reynir knew he was going to hell. But God, he thought he’d enjoy the trip. Her voice was very soft. “I only speak the truth.”

“I…” Dizzily, some part of him thought he could probably lean down and kiss her. It would be _easy_ ; Mikkel wasn’t looking at them, and the animals couldn’t tell. (Unless Lalli’s strange pagan magic let him talk to them. He really hoped it didn’t.) He leaned down…

…And jerked back upright as voices reached them. It was Emil and Sigrun and they were arguing—but their words didn’t make sense, and he had to take a moment to figure out what they could possibly be talking about. It didn’t help that something was making the horses nervous.

Tuuri was pink all the way to her ears, and busied herself with calming her horse as the others approached. She wasn’t even looking at him, and he felt like pond scum.

“We are not keeping the dragon.”

“It’s a drake.” That was Lalli, sounding supremely unimpressed.

“It’s a _baby_ ; it can’t even fly yet. And I think it’s sick.”

“We are not. Keeping. The dragon.”

_“Sigrun!”_

Reynir finally dared to step out from behind the relative shelter of Emil’s horse. “What is it—” And then he saw what _it_ was that Emil was holding—scaled and winged, with head and paws too big for its body and a yawn that revealed fangs like the gates of hell—and he thought he might faint. “Blessed Virgin!”

“Oh, it’s wonderful.” Dear God, and Tuuri looked fascinated by it. He was surrounded by madmen.

Sigrun was glaring as she gestured at the thing. “Emil found this and he wants to keep it. It’s a rock drake.” At his blank look, she took pity on him and added, “A type of dragon. You probably don’t have any on your weird island; they’re poor flyers.”

Mikkel’s eyes narrowed as they focused on the drake. Emil shifted awkwardly under his scrutiny as he demanded, “And you want to do what with it?”

“Uh,” Emil said. “I thought…it’s really little and docile, I think I can probably tame it. It would make a good guard, if I could…”

Mikkel stared at him. “With all due respect, my lord, have you been bewitched?”

He went red. “No! But, well… _look_ at it.”

Reynir did. After a long stare, he had to admit it wasn’t as hideous as it had appeared on first glance. With its stubby tail and overlarge head and paws, the proportions almost reminded him of a puppy, and its big eyes were more catlike than reptilian. As it sneezed, he felt pity well up in his heart. “Awww.”

Mikkel folded his arms across his chest. “I am looking, and I think you’ve been bewitched.”

Emil gazed at him beseechingly, eyes wide. “Doctor—Mikkel, please. At least try to heal it?”

Reynir risked clearing his throat. “Um. Why don’t we put it to a vote? All those in favor…say aye?”

Emil and Tuuri’s “ayes” came almost at the same moment his did. Lalli followed a beat behind, as though he was still mulling it over.

It looked as though they were keeping the drake.

\--

Begrudgingly, Lalli had to admit that the drake (immediately and unimaginatively named Dragon) was cute, if you liked scaly things. And it didn’t make much trouble—it wasn’t motivated to try to eat Gunilla, the dogs apparently thought it was one of them, and it was more nervous around the horses than anything. Emil let it ride in the saddle in front of him, and it hadn’t taken a bite out of his mount yet.

 _That_ was the problem, and he was man enough to admit it. Emil, for reasons unknown to him, adored the little thing. At least it slept in Mikkel and Reynir’s tent, not theirs—but when it stumbled in one evening as they were pulling their boots off, Emil promptly started cooing at it. “Hello, look how big and strong you’re getting!”

Objectively, the sight of Emil scratching behind Dragon’s horn nubs as it flapped its wings excitedly was cute. Subjectively, though…Lalli glowered at it and couldn’t suppress a grumpy sound. “Mrr.”

Emil lifted his head, pulling away to flop onto his side next to him. There wasn’t a lot of room in the tent; he was so close that they were almost touching, and the fact that they weren’t pressed against each other cut Lalli like a knife. His soft, teasing voice was worse. “… _Lalli_. Are you jealous?”

He felt his face grow hot. “Why should I be jealous of that?”

Oh, gods, Emil was smiling. Something about that sweet, tender smile always made Lalli’s heart leap into his throat. “You shouldn’t.”

“Ah—” he began, but he didn’t get any farther than that because Emil was leaning in, hand sliding up his thigh in that way that always made him forget words.

And his voice was a _purr_. “Let me reassure you.”

Lalli wasted no time tugging him in for a kiss, hot and hungry and so delicious that he was thoroughly lost in it—until something smacked his leg, and he squeaked into Emil’s mouth and jolted, pulling away to find Dragon (that little _monster_ ) shaking his boot from side to side. “I’m going to make that thing into _gloves_ , I swear.”

“It’s just a baby.” But Emil leaned over and shooed the drake out of the tent flap, drawing it tightly closed before gazing back at Lalli with eyes full of promise. “So, where were we?”

His night was rapidly getting better. “Refresh my memory.”

He did.


	6. in which reynir takes his life in his hands, and emil is discovered

According to the travelers they met coming the other way, they were a little over halfway to Finland. They’d passed farms and small towns with Dragon hiding in (usually Emil’s) saddlebags; peasants marvelled at Sigrun’s tabard and Tuuri and Emil’s rich clothing. Reynir knew he could find work at any place they stopped, could settle down quite comfortably—but he somehow couldn’t bring himself to leave them.

No, that was a lie. He couldn’t bring himself to leave _Lady Tuuri_ , who was brave and intelligent and beautiful and who absolutely wasn’t for him, even if she did smile at him. For one thing, leaving aside any questions of whether she might really want to kiss him, there was her fiancé to deal with. Emil seemed like a kind man—he talked to his pets as though they were his children—but he was a nobleman with a sharp sword and every legal right to kill him if he laid a hand on his future bride; Reynir wouldn’t stand a chance if they were discovered. So it was safer by far just to not do or say anything.

Even if she was incredibly easy to talk to. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to fall into conversation with her while they stopped to make camp, with the horses around them and Dragon rolling around at their feet looking for eagerly-granted attention. And he _adored_ her stories of Finland and the creatures that lived in her lakes.

“Oh, we have drakes in Saimaa too, but not like this. They’re a lot thinner and spikier.”

He frowned, trying to visualize it in his head. “Like a lizard?”

She shook her head, scratching between Dragon’s wings. “More like—oh, the difference between Roffe and a greyhound. Swamp drakes usually live in the water, and they’re very fast swimmers.”

“Do they breathe fire, too?” The first time he had seen Dragon spit sparks, he’d nearly jumped out of his skin, but it had ceased to be terrifying when he realized they never went very far. He hoped it would still be mostly harmless when she was fully grown.

“Mm, no. Venomous fangs.” She winced, and it made his heart hurt to see. “It can be…horrible, if you’re bitten. But it’s not so bad, sharing a lake with them! They’re mostly a danger to fish. And, um. Sometimes small children.”

He rubbed the underside of Dragon’s chin, letting the drake lean into his hand like a cat. “We had a dragon near us once when I was in Iceland. It ate a few of my sheep.”

She glanced at him. “Is that why you left?” And then she turned pink. “Oh, I’m sorry if that was an intrusive question, I was only wondering…”

His face heated. She actually sounded like she cared about the answer, and it struck him somewhere deep in his heart. “Um. No, not…not precisely. I wanted to see more of the world; I’d never left Thingeyrar in my life, but I’d heard there were—oh, wonderful things out here.”

Oh, God save him, she was smiling. “So far you’ve seen a troll and a drake and Lalli’s gifts. Were those wonderful enough to satisfy you?”

 _A troll. A drake. Your lord cousin’s gifts. And you._ He swallowed hard and turned his face away. “…Perhaps, my lady. I am not yet certain—we haven’t reached Saimaa yet, and I would dearly love to see it.”

“You’ll love it.” She sounded utterly certain. “And you _must_ stay at the castle as our honored guest—my brother will grumble, but I’m sure my grandmother would enjoy speaking with a Christian who is polite enough not to rail against ‘heathen idolaters’ and who isn’t related to us by marriage.”  

He flushed and glanced at Emil, who was _right there_ grooming his horse and could certainly hear them from where he was standing. She followed his gaze and (glory of glories) patted his arm. “He won’t mind. Ah, my lord, when we reach Saimaa—we will have a feast to welcome our traveling companions, yes?” It didn’t sound very much like a question.

Emil gently nudged aside the horse (which seemed to be determined to investigate his pockets) and looked up in evident confusion. “Yes, of course, why wouldn’t we?”

“You see?” Her smile was quick and cunning when she turned back to Reynir. “You’ll be welcomed at Saimaa.”

Mikkel strode over, effortlessly brushing them both aside to scoop Dragon up by the middle. “While the little scaly wonder is very personable, it is time for her pill. So unless you’d like to help…”

Tuuri pushed herself to her feet. “Did we not pass over a stream earlier? I believe we need water—unless anyone would _like_ to chew on dried salt pork. Come with me, Reynir.”

“I. Um.” And then her words filtered through his shock, and he shot to his feet so quickly that he almost overbalanced and fell flat on his face. “Of course, my lady—you should not be carrying anything so heavy, allow me…”

He nearly forgot to bring the bucket.

The stream wasn’t much more than a wide trickle over the stones, slow and shockingly cold and too shallow to bathe in, but it was just far enough from the rest of the group that Reynir knew none of them could hear him or Tuuri unless they yelled. If they kept the trees between them, nobody would see them either; _that_ was a realization that made his heart thump hard against his ribs. He could hold her hand, if she allowed him. He could—

He decided not to think very hard on what he _could_. Tuuri tugged the bucket out of his hand easily, kneeling to fill it in the stream before setting it aside. A lock of silvery hair escaped from the combs holding it in place, and his fingers itched to brush it back.

When she overbalanced and fell backwards onto the wet banks, he reached a hand out to help her up. She took it, but didn’t move. “Will you sit with me for a while?”

His legs folded underneath him without any sort of input from his brain. He was holding her hand and she’d asked him to sit with her, and the thinking part of his mind seemed to have shut off for the moment. “Nnh.”

She took a slow breath, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Reynir. I feel I should tell you that…I am not blind to the way you look at me.”

 _Oh, no. Blessed Virgin, have mercy on me._ His skin felt like it was on fire; he sucked in a terrified breath and babbled, “My lady, please accept my most humble apologies, I did not mean to offend you—I will never look at you again if you wish it, I swear—”

Her fingers tightened around his hand as two spots of color spread across her cheekbones. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. And I would be…very well pleased, if you would do more than look. I have held you in high esteem since we met.”

She was turning to face him then, her gaze both shy and sly, and his eyes fell to her mouth before he wrenched his gaze away—only to be caught, helpless, by her soft gray eyes. “But—my lady—you are promised to—”

Tuuri’s smile was pure wickedness. “He is a good man, but he cares nothing for me. I would rather have your kisses than his. So…will you kiss me?”

God help him, but he was a weak man and full of sin—so he did.

\--

Emil awoke to the sensation of warm, calloused fingers tracing his ear, Lalli a steady and solid source of heat at his back. The darkness behind his eyelids suggested that the sun wasn’t up yet; they had some time, and Lalli was clearly in the mood to take advantage of it. He shivered in pleasure as his lover’s nails scraped lightly over the side of his neck. “Mmm…”

“Shh.” Lips trailed over the same skin where his nails had just been, soft openmouthed kisses that made him arch and wriggle against him, heat pooling low in his belly as Lalli’s hand slid down his chest.

He huffed quietly, baring his throat as Lalli nipped lightly at his exposed skin. _You bastard, you can’t do things like that and scold me when I make a noise_. Lalli seemed to delight in that, too—roaming hands, teasing little nips and kisses all in spots that always drove him mad. When he slipped his hand inside Emil’s shirt, the feeling of bare skin on his was almost a shock. It was delicious, but from this position he couldn’t do much in return; no, he could reach behind him and grab for Lalli’s hip, pulling him tight against his rear.

Lalli actually growled, pressing against him—and oh, he was _definitely_ in the mood. Emil couldn’t help but feel a little smug, even when he had to bite back what he was sure would have been an embarrassing whimper as Lalli mouthed at the base of his throat. It sent sizzling shocks through him even like this, on the ground in the woods; he couldn’t imagine what it might be like if they ever had the chance to make use of an actual bed. _When we get to Saimaa. When we get to Saimaa, if he still wants me, I swear I’m going to find a way to Lalli’s chambers and—_

Lalli was shifting against him, propping himself up on his elbow; Emil rolled over so that their mouths could meet in a proper kiss, sinking his fingers into Lalli’s thick hair to draw him down. Lalli went willingly, draping himself over Emil’s torso, and the angle was a little awkward but Emil really, really didn’t mind if it meant Lalli was touching him. When he rolled his hips, Lalli sighed in response, and Emil wanted to stay in the tent forever.

“My lord, we’re breaking camp!”

Tuuri. Tuuri’s voice outside, and as his eyes flew open he saw that it was Tuuri’s hand pushing aside the tent flap, and even as they pulled away from each other there was no hiding what they’d both been up to.

Emil knew, very suddenly, that he was going to die. Tuuri had all but said that she wouldn’t care if he took a mistress, if he left scores of bastards across Finland—but that was nothing at all compared to _this_. Was it a mortal sin for pagans, he wondered? Lalli seemed to be immune to guilt, so maybe it wasn’t—but Tuuri was standing in front of them, and even in the gray light of dawn she looked shocked.

When her voice came out as a strangled hiss instead of a companion-alerting screech, he decided to find out how one properly thanked the Finnish gods. “You—and my cousin?!”

Lalli sat up, glaring at Tuuri. “ _You_ and the Icelander.”

He still thought he might die of horrified shame, but Lalli’s reaction made him sit up and stare at them both. “What?”

Tuuri was bright red, but she was meeting Lalli’s glare with an icy one of her own. “He is a fine man.”

The horrible part was, it did make sense; he _had_ noticed Reynir and Tuuri looking at each other somewhat longer than was strictly appropriate, and when he’d fallen in a river the week before and had to wring his shirt out she’d almost dropped Dragon (then again, he’d been rather distracted himself—Reynir _was_ attractive). And he hung on her every word in a way that was actually sort of sweet. But…

Emil flopped backwards, staring at the ceiling. “Mm-hmm. But honestly—you couldn’t have picked a blonde?”

He could actually feel Tuuri’s glare sharpening on him. “Just put your boots on and get your things. We’re leaving.”

As the tent flap fell closed again, leaving them in darkness, Emil groaned and covered his face with his hands. “Lalli, what just happened?”

“Tuuri.” Fingers combed gently through Emil’s hair, fluffing it up so that it looked presentable. “And I saw her kissing Reynir by the stream two days back.” A pause. “Are you angry?”

He pulled his hands away to get a look at Lalli’s expression. His lover wasn’t quite looking at him, eyebrows knitted in a way that meant he was concerned about something. It made him frown. “Only because I’m worried her children will be freckled redheads, and I’ll have to claim that they look like distant relations because they certainly won’t look a thing like me.”

“…Oh.” The faintest of smiles flitted across Lalli’s face, and Emil counted it as a victory.

\--

Three days. They’d been kissing for three days—only kissing, though he’d been tormented by thoughts of more—and it was the best and worst thing that had ever happened to him. Best, because it was Tuuri who was beautiful and clever and wonderful. Worst, because if Emil ever found out he was certainly a dead man. He hoped he’d at least get a proper burial, and not be torn apart by his dogs.

After they ate dinner on the third night (rabbit courtesy of Gunilla), Reynir rose from the circle of firelight and walked into the trees to pray. He wished that they were anywhere near a proper church, with a priest that could hear confession. _Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have looked upon a wondrously fair woman with lust in my heart, but she is far above my station and promised to another. If I should be slain for this, I will take it as divine punishment._

“Reynir.”

Oh, no, Emil was approaching him. He swallowed hard. Maybe it would be a question about his hair, or asking him to come back to the fire because Tuuri was starting one of her tales. Or maybe Emil would draw that sword by his hip and run him through. He still wasn’t that good with it, but he wouldn’t need to be; Reynir certainly couldn’t fight back armed with nothing but his eating knife.

He decided that confusion was the best policy. “Um?”

Emil took a slow breath, locking eyes with him. “…About…you and Tuuri. I know that you two are…close.”

He thought he was going to faint. _This is it. This is how I die._ “My lord, I assure you I meant no disrespect to you or your lady fiancée, but…um…” _She’s the bravest, smartest woman I know and you barely pay any attention to her at all, you don’t even sit next to her at meals unless you have to—_

Emil’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Good luck.”

 


	7. in which tuuri is taken ill, and reynir breaks a vow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should maybe apologize for the bit of untranslated Latin in this chapter, but...naaah.

By Tuuri’s reckoning, they were less than a month away from the edges of Saimaa, and the sooner they got there, the better. She wasn’t feeling well. It had started with a persistent headache that spread through the rest of her body; soon, food sat uneasily in her stomach, and when they pushed their horses any faster than a walk she felt nauseous. When even bread started to give her trouble, Sigrun announced that they would go nowhere for the day.

“I’m not that ill, Sigrun. I can stay in the saddle.”

Sigrun frowned at her. “With all due respect, my lady, you haven’t kept anything down since last night. I am _not_ going to be responsible for your death before we’ve even reached your castle. You rest for the day.”

She huffed, settling back against the rag-stuffed cushion she had been resting her head on for the past two months. As much as she hated to admit it, she did have a nasty suspicion that trying to get on a horse in her delicate condition might result in her being sick all over again. “Very well, if you _insist_.”

Sigrun couldn’t straighten up in the confines of their tent, so her exit was slightly awkward as she stepped out and called sharply for Mikkel. “Our little lady’s not feeling well; get your ass in here!”

Tuuri sighed and wrapped her arms around her stomach in the vague hope that it would help. It didn’t, even when she drew her knees up to her chest. _If he has to bleed me, I will be very put-out._

Mikkel trudged into the tent, eying her cautiously before squeezing in and sitting by her side. “You are still throwing up?”

She glanced at him warily and nodded. “Since yesterday. I have been nauseous—not seriously—these two days past, and this headache started that same day.”

He scratched at his sideburns, frowning thoughtfully as he pulled out a small book from his cloak. She caught sight of a few pages as he turned them—it was a horoscope, though a cheaper version of the one her family’s physician in Saimaa used. “Hrmm. Hrm.” He put the book away, meeting her eyes. “And you and the young lord have not…?”

“Have not—” _Oh, my gods._ Her face heated up in a way she knew she couldn’t blame on her illness. “Mikkel, how dare you!”

And he seemed so calm about it, too. It made her want to strangle him. “It is a valid question, and it would explain your symptoms. If you are with child—”

Torn between frustration and fury, she couldn’t keep the emotion from her voice. “If _I_ am with child, someone ought to inform your Pope, because it is most assuredly a miracle. I wish to rest now, thank you.”

If she wasn’t mistaken, he was actually smiling. “Very well, my lady. I’ll see what I can mix up for you in the meantime.”

“Hrmph.”

As he went back out into the sunshine, she rolled over onto her side and groaned. Everything hurt, and it surely wasn’t time for her monthly courses yet. Gods, part of her wished she actually was with child—at the very least, it would be an explanation. And if it were Reynir’s…well, that wouldn’t be so bad. But he was kind and a gentleman and frustratingly refused to lay a hand where the rest of their group might see, even though she had _told_ him that Emil didn’t mind—as had, apparently, Emil himself (and she’d felt a little bad for having to bite back a laugh when Reynir had told her, but _really_. Emil had no right at all to be jealous—not with what he and Lalli were doing!)

The next thing she heard, some small eternity of drifting exhaustion later, was someone rapping their knuckles on the tent’s support pole. She growled. “Go _away_.”

Emil’s voice, pitched low and very quiet. “How do you feel?”

She wedged one eye open. He was blocking the light from the open tent flap, with his dogs beside him; Roffe, less well-trained, was trying to squeeze past him to say hello. “Terrible. Why are you here?”

“A man cannot see for himself the continued health of his beautiful and well-loved fiancée?” His smile was bright and false, and vanished when she hissed at him. “Truthfully, I was a little worried. And look—I brought Roffe and Tryggve to keep you company.”

He stepped into the tent, and the dogs followed. Wincing, she uncurled herself and sat up; Tryggve took this as an invitation, and immediately butted his huge head into her stomach. As she scratched behind the mastiff’s ears, she felt something approaching good cheer return to her. “Oh, thank you—ack, Roffe, stop licking me! Bad puppy!”

Emil chuckled as he sat down by her side. “I heard what you were telling Mikkel. So, the second coming of Christ is a redhead?—oof.”

She glared at him, raising her fist in case she needed to smack it into his thigh again. Her voice came out in a hiss. “ _Emil_. Reynir and I have not done anything of the sort.”

He held up an appeasing hand. “I know, I know. He’d look much more worried if you had.” He paused, watching her. “...You could, if you wanted. I certainly wouldn’t object.”

“You’d best not! At least I’m only committing _one_ sin at a time.” At his stricken expression, she winced. “Sorry, that was cruel of me. It’s only…that’s my cousin, and I care greatly for him.”

He blushed all the way to his hairline, but held her gaze. “…So do I, trust me. I won’t interfere in your life if you will extend the same courtesy to me.”

She considered that. _If he harms Lalli, I can always kill him in his sleep after I’ve had a son or two. Or find a high tower to shove him off of. Or claim he was eaten by his own pet drake—Dragon’s getting bigger by the day._ “Very well.”

He breathed a sigh of relief and stood up, leaving her half-buried under a furry living blanket of mastiffs. “Please try to rest. I’m sure this will pass; you can shoo the dogs away if they annoy you.”

She didn’t. Eventually, when Tryggve fell asleep on her and Roffe stretched out by her side and started snoring, she drifted off.

\--

When the sun started to descend and Tuuri still wasn’t feeling better—even after drinking the various foul concoctions that Mikkel had poured down her throat, her skin was hot to the touch and she was starting to cough—Lalli started to feel slightly concerned. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time Tuuri was sick; she’d always been strong and healthy. ( _Too_ strong and healthy, almost; his earliest memory was of Onni yelling that Tuuri was stuck in a tree again.) If she was sick…that was bad. He didn’t think it was a sign of the curse that had taken their parents, not so far away from the lakes, but even so he found himself spending the day checking for altar stones and misplaced spirits. For the first time in years, he was doing it alone; Veli had laid down next to Tuuri and refused to move.

He somehow wasn’t surprised when Emil left their circle of tents to join him. “What are you looking for?”

There was a fallen log in his path; as he stepped over it, he unthinkingly held out a hand to help Emil up. It felt right. “Anything that shouldn’t be here. You can’t see them; you’re no shaman.”

Emil’s fingers were warm and sure where they laced between his, and he flashed Lalli a hopeful little look. “May I keep you company, at least? There’s nothing I can do in there; Reynir is praying over her now, and I doubt he’d appreciate my presence.”

He couldn’t help but snort. “Yes. Praying.”

“Really!” Emil was going pink, a sight which decidedly should not have made Lalli’s heart melt. “I could hear him, there was Latin being spoken. Latin is not pillow talk.”

He’d heard Latin being spoken, and he had to agree. “True. And I suppose he is trying to be discreet, though he _is_ doing a terrible job of it. With any luck, Onni will be too annoyed at having a devout Christian around to notice.”

“…From what you’ve told me, I’m surprised he approved of marrying Tuuri to me.”

Lalli decided not to mention that the servants who had brought word of Emil’s existence to Saimaa had started out praising him to the heavens, but moved to describing him as a lovable idiot, easily led and influenced, after they’d been plied with enough ale and wine. It would only upset him, even if it _was_ true. _And to think, I didn’t even want to come with Tuuri. What a fool I was._ “Onni’s annoyed by a lot of things, but I think your potential power outweighed your religion. Don’t worry; he’ll definitely cry at the wedding.”

“Hrm.” The mention of the wedding seemed to strike a chord in Emil, because he stopped to look back at where they’d made camp. “Lalli, is there…is there anything you can do for Tuuri? I don’t know if—can your magic do anything?”

He huffed, following his lover’s line of sight. “I think so. Maybe.” After a moment’s thought, he amended that to, “Yes.”

Emil swung his head back around to stare at him, an expression like disbelieving wonder passing across his face. “What is it? Whatever aid I can give you, I will—I may not have wanted this marriage, but God knows I don’t want her to die.”

He turned away, gaze flickering over the trees without really seeing them. Somewhere in the branches, a bird was calling. “…Can you keep a rhythm?”

“Huh?”

“I can talk to the gods. It would be easier if someone could keep time—like this. And don’t talk or interrupt me.” He pulled his hand free from Emil’s and drummed his fingers against the nearest tree.

Emil took a breath. “I can do that. Now, or…?”

It was something Lalli could do quite well without anyone backing him up, but it would probably make Emil feel better to help. And even if Emil screwed it up, he’d memorized the runos to cure diseases long ago. “Yes.”

Emil’s fist thumped steadily against the tree trunk, the same rhythm Lalli had shown him. He didn’t say a word, but Lalli could feel his eyes on him.

After a few deep breaths to center himself, he opened his mouth and started to pray.

\--

“…sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne inducas nos in tentationem…” _A bit late for that, really, but God—forgive me!_ “…sed libera nos a malo, amen.”

Reynir’s voice was hoarse. His throat hurt; his knees were sending lances of pain up to his spine from where they met the hard ground. It was hot and stuffy in the tent with all the animals crowding around Tuuri, but none of that mattered in comparison to her health. He had no idea how long he’d been kneeling by her side, praying that she would open her eyes and look at him; she’d been sleeping fitfully since the last dose of Mikkel’s medicine when he’d slipped in to watch over her.

 _“If your medicine isn’t helping her, perhaps it is in the hands of God. Let us see what prayer can do.”_ He still had no idea where he’d gotten his courage from, but Mikkel had smiled and bowed out, leaving him alone to pray.

He opened his eyes and unclasped his hands, wincing at their stiffness. Tuuri shifted in her sleep, face twisting in pain; he wasn’t sure whether the soft, distressed whine came from him or one of Emil’s dogs. _God, please. I know I am a sinner, I know I don’t deserve it—but spare her, I beg you. Even though she is a pagan…_

The thought that flashed across his mind almost made him gasp at its sheer blasphemy—but as the shock faded and he forced himself to really think about it, he had to admit that it was worth a try. He was already going to burn in hell, after all, and one might as well hang for a sheep as for a lamb. Now, what had Tuuri said about her gods and how to ask them for aid?

“Gods of Finland, I know I am not of your people, but one of them is sick and she could die and please, _please_ help her—”

Lalli’s lynx was lifting its head. He cut himself off at the sight of its eyes, lit from within by a cold blue light. As it stood up and padded out of the tent, he started to rise.

Tuuri sighed in her sleep, and he sat back down. Some sort of magic was clearly at work here, but no matter how much he wanted to see what was going on, he would not leave Tuuri alone. If—no, _when_ —she woke up, he would be there.

And then the words met his ears, seeped into his mind, started coiling through his bones, and he couldn’t move even if he’d wanted to. Lalli was chanting in Finnish—he could recognize that much—but he had no idea where his voice was coming from. Underneath it, he could hear Sigrun and Mikkel talking to each other, each demanding to know if the other knew what was going on, but it wasn’t nearly as important as the rhythm of the words.

They weren’t his gods and it wasn’t his tongue, but as he listened he realized it was a prayer nonetheless. He gazed up to the heavens and added his own. _My God, let her be cured of her afflictions. Let her be well. If only she is cured, I vow that I will never lay a hand on her again—_

“Uggghhh.”

 _Tuuri_. He couldn’t look at her, barely dared to hope…but his eyes slid to her of their own accord.

She was trying to sit up, shoving ineffectually at the dog half-pinning her to the blanket. “Ugh, I am _starving_. Is there anything to eat?”

He swallowed hard. “Are you—are you feeling better, my lady?”

Tuuri still looked pale and tired, but her smile lit up her whole face. “Oh, yes—much better.”

He let himself breathe again. “Thank the Lord. Or—thank your gods, I suppose. Someone must have heard our prayers.”

Saints preserve him, her smile looked almost teasing, and he could feel his heart try to lodge itself in his throat. “Why, Reynir. Are you saying that you even asked my gods for help?”

His face felt like it was on fire. “…Yes. Well—you were sick! And Mikkel’s medicines weren’t helping, and I was scared, and—”

She was taking his hands, and as he stared into her eyes he forgot what he was going to say. “…Reynir. If I did not desperately need to clean my teeth, I would be kissing you right now.”

 _We shouldn’t_ , he thought. _I made a sacred vow._ What came out of his mouth instead was, “Mikkel is a heavy sleeper. If you can get out of your tent tonight…”

Her eyes gleamed. “I’ll find a way.”

_God help me, I am in love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translation, because I have pity on you guys: "...as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, amen." For those of you who were not dragged to Mass every week, it's the last few lines of the Lord's Prayer.


	8. in which the journey ends

In a week’s time—less, if they changed horses frequently—they would be in Saimaa. The news that their journey was almost over saw the team in high spirits; even Mikkel, usually so sardonic, turned cheerful when they heard the news from a passing group of merchants, and Sigrun saw fit to celebrate by getting drunk and telling them all stories of the last time she’d been in the area (stories including worrying reoccurrences of the phrases “most best” and “honestly not my fault”). Tuuri was more subdued, but she beamed at Reynir’s wide-eyed wonder the first time they saw a swamp drake breaching the surface of a pond.

Emil and Lalli rode at the back of the group in silence. At the last town they’d passed, Lalli had traded the pelt of a deer he’d shot for a dog-sized collar and lead; Dragon was large enough to wear it now, and so Emil held the end of her leash in addition to his reins. Training her to follow simple commands had kept his mind off of how close they were; he thought maybe if he was lucky, Saimaa might sneak up on him, and he could finally get rid of the looming dread coiling around his shoulders.

And then Tuuri dropped back to ride next to him, so she wouldn’t have to raise her voice. “If the courier we hired at that last inn makes it to his destination, my brother and grandmother will meet us at the borders of our lands; we have a summer castle there. Are you excited?”

“…I suppose.” He managed a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. When they got to Saimaa, he would be a married man, and under more scrutiny than he had ever been. No matter how many stories Tuuri told him of her family, there was no denying that he would be an outsider; knowing that Tuuri would be in the same position once their families retook Östersund didn’t help. At least she spoke his language and had made a study of his religion. He was acutely aware that he couldn’t say the same; Tuuri had tried to teach him Finnish but his accent was atrocious and his grammar was worse.

And now he would be in Saimaa, surrounded by people who were probably just waiting for him to make a mistake. And there were so many things that could go wrong, not least of which was the supposed task of continuing the family line. _Lord, please let Tuuri’s children look just like her._

She patted his arm. “They’ll love you.”

He could feel Lalli’s eyes on him, and it made his face heat. “I hope you’re right.”

“My lady, do you hear that? It sounds like someone singing.”

As Tuuri nudged her horse into a canter to stop Reynir from inadvertently getting eaten by a näkki, Emil gazed out at the forest lining their path. _At least Tuuri approves of me. And Lalli…_

Well. They’d never spoken about feelings, but Emil was reasonably sure that Lalli cared for him. He _hoped_ Lalli cared for him—surely, he wouldn’t be so intimate with someone he felt nothing for? Lalli was strange and quiet, but Emil had fallen asleep with fingers sliding through his hair on more than one occasion, and that had to mean something. He was going to miss that when they arrived in Saimaa.

 _Maybe I can still have that, if I’m lucky._ He tried not to look in Lalli’s direction, because he knew that if he did he would never stop blushing—but the idea of what they could get up to in a proper bed was a terribly tempting line of thought. If, that was, Lalli still wanted to. Emil knew very well that he might not; fooling around on the road far from prying eyes and the risk of familiar discovery was one thing, but sneaking around practically under your noble cousin’s nose was quite another. God knew _he’d_ never normally risk it.

But this was Lalli, and he—yes, Emil could admit it, he loved him. Sometime between that first sizzling snap of eye contact and the night he’d spent drumming his fist on a tree so that the shaman could sing his prayers, he’d realized that the feelings he had for him ran deeper and stronger than simple lust or the fierce friendship he felt for Tuuri. He didn’t want to think about spending his nights in Saimaa cold and alone.

Lalli’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “What’s wrong with you?”

Even looking at Lalli made his heart skip a beat, and he knew he was turning pink as his eyes skittered over to his lover. “Huh?”

“…You’re quiet. You’re never quiet.”

Despite himself, he grinned. “I can be quiet!”

“Mm-hmm.”

The faint smirk hovering around Lalli’s lips warmed his heart, and he risked leaning over to give his arm a squeeze. _Tonight. Tonight, when we stop to make camp, I’ll ask him._

\--

Lalli would be home soon, and he was not prepared. On one hand, he would be back in familiar surroundings with decent food, and it would be so easy to settle back into his old routine. On the other hand, his old routine had been just for him and him alone, with nobody’s presence to occupy his mind even when they weren’t around. And he _wanted_ Emil around. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if the feeling wasn’t mutual.

As they bedded down for the night, he decided that not knowing was worse than the possibility of being turned down when they got there. At least it wouldn’t be a surprise.

He took a breath, watching Emil out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t think he could handle eye contact right now; the glimpse of his lover’s cheek was just enough. “Emil?”

Emil was tugging his boots off, but as he set them by the side of his blanket he turned to smile at him. “Yes?”

Words, never Lalli’s bosom companions at the best of times, seemed determined to desert him. Only when he reached over to put a hand on Emil’s thigh did he find something resembling vocabulary. “When we get to Saimaa. Do you—do you still want to…” His questions _(do you still want me, will you still come to my bed)_ seemed to lodge painfully in his throat, so instead he gestured uselessly between their bodies and hoped Emil would understand.

For a moment Emil blinked at him uncomprehending—and then his eyes shone, and the smile that spread across his face was bright enough that Lalli didn’t even notice how dark the inside of the tent was. “God, yes!”

 _Oh, thank the gods._ Joy flashed hot through him and demanded expression—so he gave into the urge and pulled Emil into a ferocious kiss. Emil went willingly, melting against him and sighing in pleasure when Lalli slid a hand up his back. The heat of Emil’s mouth, of his body so close to his made him growl, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to lean back and pull him down to the blankets; from this position Emil was almost pinning him, legs on either side of his hips.

When he pulled away, he was panting lightly, face flushed as he gazed into Lalli’s eyes. “Why would you think I wanted to give this up?”

Lalli waited—oh, it wasn’t a rhetorical question. Damn. He huffed up at him. “I don’t know! You’re going to be a married man, and I heard Christians can be strange about things like that—well, stranger than us, anyway. Don’t you go to hell for that or something?”

Emil’s eyes went dark and serious. “…Lalli.”

Dread uncoiled a few of its spiky segments in his guts; he was suddenly far too aware of his own heartbeat. “Mrr?”

Emil lowered himself down against Lalli until he was propped up on his elbows. The solid weight should have been uncomfortable, but it felt _right_. “I don’t care about going to hell or—or eternal damnation or _anything_ , so long as you are by my side. If that is a sin, then let me be damned.”

“I love you.”

_Fuck._

Emil made a choking sound and stared at him, unmoving. His eyes were wide and stunned and very, very blue.

Lalli wondered if it was too late to drown himself in the nearest lake. If he shoved Emil off of him he could be up and moving in moments, long before Emil got over his shock and thought to follow him. From there it would be a simple matter of praying to Vellamo, who would probably oblige her loyal servant in his hour of mortal humiliation. Even though—even though it was _true_ , it wasn’t a sentiment he’d ever intended to let pass his lips.

“…Do you understand how long I’ve been praying that you would say that?”

Oh. Well. Maybe he wouldn’t need to throw himself in a lake after all. He had a moment to marvel at how rough Emil’s voice sounded before the man was kissing him again, softly and tenderly. All he could do was sigh and shift under him, arching slowly. “Mmm…”

Eventually Emil drew away, voice so soft and full of emotion that it made Lalli’s heart clench. “I _adore_ you. If you’ll still have me when we reach your cousin’s castle, I will not forsake you. I’ll find some way to make this work.”

He couldn’t help but crack a smile. “I’ll show you all the secret passageways between your rooms and mine.” Emil kissed him again at that; when he had his mouth back, he found himself asking the first thing that popped into his mind. “And when you’re lord of Östersund…?”

Emil actually smirked at him, an expression which was far more attractive on him than it had any right to be. “If there aren’t any hidden corridors in my castle, I shall have some constructed. Either way—who is going to stop the lord from going where he pleases?”

The image that crashed through his mind—dark stone walls, a door swinging open, Emil’s weight on him just the way it was now—was so powerful that he almost groaned, bucking his hips hard. And after that, well, there was nothing for it but to tangle his fingers in Emil’s hair and kiss him again, luxuriating in the way they felt together.

When they eventually lay still, half-dressed and nearly asleep, with Emil’s head on his shoulder, Lalli decided that he’d changed his mind. He _definitely_ couldn’t wait to get to Saimaa.

\--

The Hotakainen retinue met them at the borders. Onni sat astride a fine gray mare at the very head of his forces; even if Emil hadn’t seen portraits, he would have recognized him instantly, for the man was a heavier version of Lalli in substantially finer clothes. Though they fitted him perfectly, his doublet and hose seemed awkward and misplaced, as though he spent most of his time in rougher garb and wasn’t used to silks and velvet. The bears’-fur cloak thrown over his shoulders, on the other hand, seemed as much a part of him as his steel-gray hair.

Somehow, he wasn’t nearly as intimidating as the round old lady sitting in the litter next to him. She wasn’t dressed ostentatiously, but then she didn’t need to be; with the way she carried herself, gaze sweeping over the approaching group, her black houppelande and tall hennin headdress might as well have been ermine robes and a golden crown. As he studied her, Emil realized he was likely getting a good look at what Tuuri would look like in forty years. It was sort of unnerving, and he wondered how Reynir felt about it.

Onni didn’t smile when his gaze fell on Emil, but the tightness around his eyes relaxed fractionally. “Welcome to Saimaa.”

Emil dropped to the ground as gracefully as he could, bowing to the precise depth necessary to indicate respect. “God be here, Lord Hotakainen. It is an honor to be in your presence.” _Oh, shit, should I have said that? What’s the proper way to greet a pagan? I know Tuuri doesn’t mind but—_

“Hrm.” Onni bowed from the saddle, looking unimpressed.

Evidently, the Hotakainens’ grandmother did not require aid to get down from her litter. As she stomped over to him, leaning heavily on her cane, he saw the edge of a scar curving up her cheek. “Come here, boy, let me look at you.”

He took a few steps towards her and bowed deeply. “Good day, my lady.”

“Oh, psh.” Her smile was entirely Tuuri’s, right down to the razor edges of the threat lurking below the surface. “It seems we chose rightly when we wedded our precious girl to such a handsome young man—and with such good manners, too.”

He swallowed. “I ever strive to be a gentleman, my lady.”

Her eyes left him, and he almost buckled with relief. “As you should be. Tuuri, Lalli—three months away from home and you forget your own grandmother? Get off your horses and give me a hug, for the gods’ sakes.”

As Tuuri and Lalli hugged their grandmother—Tuuri with joy, Lalli with resignation—Onni glanced over their group. “It seems you’ve brought a monk with you.”

Sigrun jabbed an elbow into Reynir’s ribs before he could open his mouth; in that moment, Emil’s love for her knew no bounds. She was smiling as she met Onni’s gaze. “A well-loved traveling companion of ours, my lord, and not out to convert you. He has come all the way from far-off Iceland to witness the wonders of your court.”

“ _Hrmph_. Well. So long as he keeps a civil tongue in his head, he is welcome here.”

The dowager eyed Reynir appraisingly. “…Iceland, you say? Perhaps I will visit there someday, if it is not too far for my old bones.”

“Grandmother!” Tuuri looked scandalized; Onni and Reynir were near-identical shades of crimson.

Emil caught Lalli’s eye and couldn’t help but smile at the way he rolled his eyes behind his grandmother’s back. _Saimaa will be entertaining, if nothing else. And I think I will like being part of this family._

Onni cleared his throat. “Our summer castle is nearby. Shall we?”

It was directed at Emil, who nodded. “As you wish.”

And if the smile on his face as he rode was due to the indelible memory of his lover’s promises, and not to any anticipation of his wedding night, nobody would know.


End file.
